


the b-word

by pipdadiddlydoo



Category: The Clash
Genre: Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdadiddlydoo/pseuds/pipdadiddlydoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A blonde, a blunt, and a blowjob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a blonde

Paul had been too wasted to remember the events of the night exactly, but what stood out quite prominently in his memory is that it was a really horrible party, which was the reason he got completely pissed in the first place. It had seemed like a good idea to attend the party at first; a friend-of-a-friend had seen them at a gig a few months back and invited them, but the company proved to be mostly virtually unknown to Paul. Joe attempted to make a few introductions, which only served to make Paul feel more out of place at the gathering. He didn't want to make even a lackluster effort at making connections that night. There had been basslines to polish up earlier that day, which took quite a bit of effort considering that The Clash already had one album under their belt. More people to impress, more skills to learn, more effort exerted.

So Paul moved through the partygoers towards the liquor table. Might as well stay for free alcohol, he reasoned, since the rest of the band didn't seem as keen as him to leave. Topper had already beaten him to the table, Paul realized as he neared it and a strong smell of spilled liquor wafted towards him. In greeting, the shorter man held up a chipped shot glass, sloshing the dark liquid inside it. "The hell is this?" Paul asked, taking the glass from Topper's outstretched hand and examining it.

"Dunno. It was in that bottle," he shrugged, gesturing to an unmarked bottle resting among the array of alcohol on the overflowing table.

"Bottoms up." Paul tipped back the glass and Topper followed suit with his own glass. Whatever it was, it burned his throat pleasantly and left a cloying, almost-sweet taste of liquor on his tongue. "Pretty sure that was rum, Topper," he commented, licking his lips.

Topper nodded in agreement, grabbing the bottle off the table again and pouring himself another shot, pointing silently at Paul's glass with his other hand and raising his eyebrows as an offering.

"Sure," Paul nodded, holding out his shot glass. The amber liquid poured into the glass again, and in unison they both brought the drink to their lips.

"One more? Three's the charm, y'know," Topper offered, already replenishing the drink in his glass. Paul nodded. A few shots and a few beers and he would call it good, he told himself as the rum hit his tongue again. Maybe he'd go and find an unoccupied hallway or bedroom or something and just curl up there for the rest of the night with a six pack of beer and Topper, if he could convince him to come along. Getting drunk at a disappointing party with a friend was fine, but doing it by himself would make him incredibly sad, Paul thought to himself.

"Listen, do you actually know anybody here?" Paul asks, leaning in towards Topper with an arm on the table to talk above the noise of the party. Topper shakes his head and starts pouring himself another shot. "What say you then that we grab a few beers and go drink in the hall?" Topper tosses back the shot and drops his glass on the table.

"I'd say that sounds good."

So they manage to scrounge up the equivalent of a six pack of some various generic-brand looking beers and retreat further into the house away from the main living room area, where most of the people are congregating. Up a flight of stairs, there are a few bedrooms and a bathroom with a leather jacketed man with a crudely drawn dick on his face trying to scrub it off frantically (the people here couldn't even be bothered waiting until someone passed out to draw lewd things on their friends' faces, Paul thought to himself). One of the bedrooms is occupied with a bra tossed over the doorknob as a "keep out" sign, but the last one at the end of the hall is empty, so they settle there. Topper jumps onto the top of the bed near the headboard, not bothering to take off his boots, and makes haste in cracking open a lukewarm can of beer. Paul clambers on after him and dumps the cans he was carrying onto the pillow next to Topper, grabbing one for himself in the process. "Cheers," he says to Topper, opening the can and settling down shoulder-to-shoulder with Topper on the bed. Topper tips his can in acknowledgement and takes a long swig of beer. 

"Not feelin' it tonight?" Topper questions casually, setting the beer on his thigh. Paul shakes his head as he takes a drink. It's cheap, piss beer, but it'll accomplish the goal.

"Nah," he responds. Topper nods in understanding, tracing his finger around the rim of the can. Paul likes this about Topper. He doesn't really have to explain his motives to him, Topper's fine to just have a beer with him. He feels like Topper really _gets_ him, in a way. They drink in a comfortable silence for a few minutes as dimmed noise from the party downstairs filters up to their ears. Paul is taking another long swig of his ale when a couple fumbles through the door, halting their kissing and hurried groping as they notice Paul and Topper's presence.

"Go get a _different_ room," Topper calls after them as they stumble out again, before taking a long chug of his beer. When he lifts the can from his lips, he chuckles lightly. "Horny bastards."

"Everybody at this party is in such a damn rush," Paul comments. "In a hurry to draw on each other, in a hurry to bang each other..." He pauses to swallow the rest of his beer and he tosses the can off the side of the bed. He can feel it hit his stomach but he's feeling a bit tipsy and he doesn't give a damn. "They don't appreciate a little buildup, a little rest."

"You sound like an old man," Topper snorts as Paul leans across his chest to grab another beer. Topper's hand moves up to ruffle Paul's hair lightly as Paul reaches for a beer and he feels himself relaxing into the touch. So he just flops down into Topper's lap and shifts to lay on his back with his head against Topper's thigh. Topper chuckles in response, sipping his drink. 

"I'm not an old man," Paul protests, opening his beer. "I just have an 'ppreciation for some buildup to a party's climax, see what I'm saying? Don't need to start the crazy stuff 'till later, when everybody's all drunk." Truthfully, he doesn't really know what he's saying, but he feels like continuing the discussion. He feels like bitching a bit about his dissatisfaction, too. 

"Those two probably're having some appreciation for buildup to a _climax_ ," Topper grins, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the couple that was headed towards the other room. Paul rolls his eyes but laughs shortly, attempting to take a sip of his beer while lying on his back. It doesn't go as planned; he spills beer down his neck and on his shirt and starts coughing as it hits the back of his throat wrong. 

Topper bursts out laughing, and Paul laughs with him between coughs, because this situation is admittedly ridiculous and pretty funny even for the guy who's choking on his own beer. As the laughter dies down a bit and Paul clears his throat, able to breathe again, Topper places his hand back on his head. He starts gently sort of petting Paul's hair again, teasing his fingers through the blonde strands which Paul has ever so artfully arranged with a bit of gel and a few missed showers. It's soothing, Paul thinks, but he holds back the comment with a careful sip of beer which he doesn't spill this time. His tactic doesn't really work, because as soon as he takes the can away from his lips he sort of hears himself saying, "This is nice... really nice... thanks," and sort of follows it up with a small grin. He would make a mental note that he needs to talk less when he's tipsy but Topper's grinning back a bit himself and his hand is still in his hair. 

"It's no problem, mate," Topper responds. At the affirmation, Paul relaxes into the touch again, realizing how nice it is to be coddled a bit by someone. Topper runs a hand through his bangs, spiking them up off of his forehead. It's actually making Paul rather drowsy, and he closes his eyes. The alcohol is making him a bit of a sleepy drunk now combined with his relaxed state and his fatigue. Topper is warm and the bed is comfortable and Paul figures it won't do much harm to let his mind wander and rest for a while because he's still damn tired.

Clearly at some point he nods off, because he wakes from his dreamless doze as he feels Topper shift beneath him and threading his hand through his hair again, and he feels Topper lean down towards his head to plant what feels like a small brush of the lips against the top of his head, just barely tickling in his hair. Paul's recently-woken brain is struggling to make sense of any implications this has when he is fully jolted back to consciousness as something conks lightly against his face, liquid sloshing inside it. Beer can, his mind tells him. Paul's brain feels fuzzy and he wants to go back to sleep but he forces himself to sit up from where his head had been resting in Topper's lap, which was admittedly quite comfortable. "Up and attem, Paulie. Joe and Mick have been looking for us," Topper reports as Paul rubs at his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. 

"Sorry. I was just resting. Didn't mean t'fall asleep on you," Paul explains, scratching at his jawline nervously. 

"Don't worry about it," Topper replies offhandedly, tossing the last beer can over the side of the bed. Paul remembers for the umpteenth time why he absolutely loves hanging out with Topper. "You looked tired, I didn't want to move you. Now c'mon." Topper swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, offering a hand to Paul. The blonde clasps it and follows after Topper, clambering off a bit less gracefully. "Let's head out."

Paul follows after Topper as they climb down the stairs, bid their goodbyes, and exit the house. They separate about a block away and Paul manages to hail a cab, wanting to get back to his flat as fast as possible to continue his sleep, and stop thinking about the night's events with Topper. He hates to dwell on things, but it keeps nagging away in the back of his thoughts. Maybe it meant nothing, or maybe it meant something. He frankly doesn't care at the moment, nor does he want to debate its meaning later tomorrow, he decides as he stares out the window, watching the darkened city streets pass. Instead, he tucks the memory of that night into a corner of his mind to think about during a day where he can read books and stare out the window for a bit and ponder about the "what-might-have-could-have-should-have-beens".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing but cute shit in this chapter.  
> I'll probably end up updating this soon with the next chapter. They'll be a bit more "m" themed after this.  
> Anyway, enjoy, I am an idiot and this sucks.


	2. a blunt

"Thanks again," Paul says quietly, punctuated by an inhale of smoke. "For coming over, and the weed and all."  
  
"Never a problem," Topper says in response, leaning forwards to pluck the joint from Paul's hand. He takes a long drag, settling back against the arm of the couch and feels inexplicably comfortable. It's a wonderful Friday night, proven by the occasional siren and chatter of people drifting through the cracked window of Paul's apartment, one which Topper would usually feel enthused to join, but an invitation from Paul to smoke and crash at his place had deterred him from it. And he doesn't regret it, Topper muses. He had managed to get ahold of what was promised to be some good, strong pot a few days ago and Paul always had a few beers in his kitchen. Tonight, he is comfortable to cram together with Paul on the old couch in Paul's barren apartment, knees bumping against the bassist's. He passes the smoking joint back to Paul, slinging his legs off of the couch and standing up. "Getting myself a beer, you want one?" he asks. Paul nods in affirmation, joint held between his lips. Topper sees him close his eyes as he exhales, head slumping back against the couch.  
  
 He retreats briefly from the small living room area to Paul's even smaller kitchen and makes for the fridge. Paul's flat isn't luxury at all, but it's nice considering how broke they are at the moment. Starving artists, they are, Topper thinks to himself. Knowing The Clash's tour life, Paul will probably be out of here soon, bouncing from hotel room to van with the rest of them. There are a few beers left on a bottom shelf, which he takes in hand and opens, having spotted a bottle opener on the counter. He flicks the caps into the sink and as he enters back through the threshold, he notices a paint-splattered sheet laid out near the window. The corners are held down by, respectively, a beer bottle, a cup of paintwater, and box of paint tubes. "Been painting again?" he asks, motioning with a hand to the dropcloth. Paul sits up, removing his hat to run a hand through his light hair and accept the beer before flopping back against the couch arm again.  
  
"I try," he responds modestly, taking another drag of smoke. "When I can, I do, yeah. You can go take a look if ya want." Topper wanders over to the window, kneeling at the edge of the dropcloth to look at the canvas in the middle of it. The paint is streaky, almost Van Gogh-esque, and it's about a quarter painted. So far paint has only been applied to detail a night sky, but he can see below it a pencil outline of the Thames. He looks at the painting, head cocked, for a minute more before standing again, taking a swig of beer.  
  
"Jesus, Paul, it looks really good. Hell, you should be in a fancy art school."  
  
"I was going to be," Paul replies, flicking his eyes downwards as he mashes the tiny end of the joint into an ashtray on the floor. Topper climbs back onto the couch, stretching out his legs so that one lines up against Paul's leg. That was stupid to say, he chastises himself. He knew that.  
  
"Yeah," Topper mumbles, raising the bottle to his lips to avoid himself saying something stupid again. It works, as he says something much less stupid next. "Here, care to roll another one?" He passes the baggie of weed to Paul from the pocket of his worn leather jacket. Paul cracks a smile in response and places his beer on the floor and takes the baggie from Topper's hand, leaning over the side of the couch to grab a box of papers near the ashtray.  
  
Paul's hands are deft as he packs the weed in a line along the papers. He has nice hands, Topper inadvertently finds himself thinking; calloused from bass strings and somewhat thin-fingered. Paul expertly rolls it, compactly and neatly, patting his shirt pockets for a lighter. He finds one in his breast pocket of the collared shirt he's wearing, and, seemingly satisfied, places the joint between his lips and lights it with a flick of the lighter. He inhales and gets up to kneel near the end of the couch, where his record player sat with a row of vinyls wedged between it and the end of the couch to keep them upright. "Anything ya want to listen to?" he asks, slipping a vinyl back into its sleeve and placing it back with the rest.

"Got any Grateful Dead?"

Turns out, Paul has acquired a shoddy copy of _Grateful Dead_ , and he clambers back onto the couch once the needle is placed on the vinyl. Paul climbs back onto the couch, pushing Topper's legs off the middle of the couch as he opts to sit with his back against the cushions, no longer facing Topper. Topper slings his legs back onto the couch, resting them back in their original position which happens to now be on Paul's thighs in protest. Paul shifts under him, and in retaliation blows smoke at him from the corner of his mouth, folding his hands loosely over Topper's legs. He cracks a small smile and draws in a deep breath of smoke before tipping his head back to blow it towards the ceiling, causing his hat to fall off behind the couch. He makes no move to retrieve it. The couch is really too small for one of them, much less the both of them, but it had been cheap. Probably because it was well used; it had stuffing coming out of the back and the cushions were rather lumpy in places. But it's incredibly comfortable now to Topper, with the pot mellowing him and Paul's fingers tapping out a beat on his leg. The time passes in relatively comfortable silence, familiar music filling the break of conversation as they alternate passes. 

Paul's eyes stay pointed towards the ceiling and his finger drumming is slow and erratic in pattern. He's pensive, Topper can tell, but he's not going to press Paul to tell him what's up. Paul is a whirlwind of ripped clothes and paint splatter onstage, wielding his bass in an almost guitar-like fashion, but offstage he's more reserved. He often speaks carefully, modestly; he makes it inadvertently hard for people to not like him. Or to not be attracted to him, a part of Topper's brain tells him mockingly. He pushes the thought away with a swig of beer. When he looks back over, Paul's eyes are on him expectantly. He takes the joint away from his lips between his fingers and Topper meets his gaze steadily as he begins to speak softly.

"D'ya remember when we were at that party a while back? D'ya remember it?" he asks. Topper shrugs.

"We've gone to a lot of parties."

"The one where-," he stops and scratches at his jaw with his other hand. "I fell asleep on ya? That one?" He takes another breath of smoke and Topper can see him settle back into the couch as he breathes out, relaxing a bit. 

"Yeah," Topper says, breathing out a short laugh as an attempt to diffuse the tension. Paul looks tense for the amount of pot he's put into his system tonight.

"Did you- did you, that night, I mean, did you-," Paul sort of falters, takes another quick hit from the joint and continues in a soft voice. "Did you, ehm, kiss me?"

Topper physically feels himself jump into panic mode. He quickly looks away to the floor and raises his beer to his lips for a long drink, avoiding this as long as possible. Fuck, his palms are even getting sort of sweaty. Deny, deny, deny, his mind is screaming at him. You were both drunk, he can't've remembered it, he was asleep for Chrissakes and you were being an affectionate, drunken idiot. He manages to look back to Paul and opens his mouth to say something that will avert the crisis that has been caused, but he ends up sort of stammering out an "I, um- fuck- well, I was-," and damn this is harder than he had anticipated. There's no coherent response to question of this apparent magnitude. Topper doesn't want to lie to Paul because yes, he did sort of kiss him just a little, and yes, he does like Paul in just a little bit more than a platonic way. "Well- yes," Topper finally manages weakly. Before he can jump in to defend himself with a denial along the lines of 'it didn't mean anything, of course, Paul, my beautiful friend', Paul cuts him off.

 "Okay, yes, that's what I had thought," Paul stammers out, blue eyes flicking away from Topper's. He scratches at the side of his jaw again and runs his hand through his hair. Paul sounds just as nervous as Topper feels, and he breathes down more smoke before flicking away the butt of the joint towards the ashtray and continuing. He's clearly trying to relax himself into this, and it's working to a degree because he's talking, even if it's full of pauses. "I've sort of been thinking about it, y'know? Did-didja mean anything by it?" he continues. "Are you, uh-," he falters, letting the implication hang in the air.

"No! No," Topper immediately responds. And it's truthful; he does like women, and he is decidedly not gay save for Paul on occasion. "I mean, yes, yes to the first I suppose, and no to the second?" Fuck, fuck, fuck, he inwardly curses to himself. This here could make or break the situation, and Topper takes another long drink from his beer. He realizes he's down to the dregs of the bottle, and sets it on the floor before returning his gaze to Paul, gauging his reaction. 

"Ah, I knew it meant somethin'," Paul comments under his breath, more to himself than Topper. "I couldn't've spent that much thought on it and have it be nothin'." He lets out a little breath and Topper can see his shoulders relax a bit. He looks up at Topper, his eyes slightly red around the rims. "I'm gonna- ah, shit," Paul says and he leans in towards Topper and plants a kiss on his cheek. He leans back and settles back against the couch, mouth quirking in something like a smile as he places his hands back on Topper's legs. Topper goes a bit slack-jawed and before he can really understand what he's doing he leans forward and cups Paul's jaw with his hands to pull him in for a chaste kiss on the lips before falling back against the arm of the couch. The awkward nervousness plaguing the conversation before fades away as Paul, clearly not to be outdone, kisses Topper again on the lips more enthusiastically. Topper's not quite sure what emotion he's feeling anymore, but he kisses Paul back and decides that whatever the hell has happened now is very good. They break apart for a breath when Topper bites at Paul's lower lip and they sit for a minute, Paul pressing his forehead against Topper's and laughing softly. "Well- this means something I suppose."

Topper nods, cracking a smile in response. "Yeah. I'd suppose as well." The side one on _Grateful Dead_ finishes playing as they sit together, and Paul gets up to change it to side two. Topper becomes acutely aware of Paul's missing presence once he leaves, and props himself up more against the arm of the couch. The atmosphere of the room now is charged as Paul returns to the couch, wrapping his arms around Topper's neck and pressing their lips together as he slings a leg over Topper's waist, effectively climbing back onto the couch flush on top of the other man. Topper kisses back fervently and happily, enjoying the feeling of Paul's chest pressed firmly against his own. He is warm and he feels fuzzy from the alcohol, or the weed, or maybe a mix of both, or maybe from Paul, who is skimming his tongue lightly over Topper's bottom lip.

They kiss in a rather uncoordinated way until the record ends, but Paul makes no motion this time to get up to replace it. He instead rests his head in the crook where Topper's shoulder meets his neck, blonde hair mussed from Topper's hands, and presses a gentle kiss there with reddened lips. Topper feels him sigh against his skin and adjust himself against Topper's body, wrapping his arms loosely around him. He feels rather lightheaded but satisfied, and Paul and him both have the hickies to prove it. He stares up at the ceiling in the quiet of the room, listening to the muted sound of cars and people from outside the window, thinking, and finds himself smiling. And why wouldn't he? Hell, he just had an incredibly satisfying make-out session with a guy who yes, he definitely, most certainly liked in a much-more-than-a-platonic-friend sort of way. Fuck, this was weird, but also pretty damn great.

Paul's breathing is slow against the drummer's chest, and the night air is cool outside the warm room of the apartment. For the second time, Topper presses a kiss against the blonde head resting against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More shit goes down in this chapter than the last one I guess, I'm trying to make this sort of linear.  
> I am still really dumb for writing this.


	3. a blowjob

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This still sucks and it is the end
> 
> There is so much kissing.

The first time Topper tries to come on to Paul, they're in the dressing room and Topper's high as a kite. Paul's contemplating having a smoke as he leans against the wall of the dimly lit, stifling little enclave backstage. It's a set countdown to showtime now, and Mick and Joe have left to lug the remaining cables back to the venue from the car. Paul leans his head back against the wall and fishes a cigarette out of his pocket as Topper stumbles in, clearly shot with what seems to be nervous excitement. Either that, or he's just done a few lines of coke. He shuts the door behind him with a foot, loudly, and nearly trips over a chair in his haste to stumble over to Paul. Before Paul can comment on his entrance, Topper smashes his lips against his, causing the cigarette to fall to the floor, and drops to his knees in front of Paul with a painful sounding _thunk_. His hands go for Paul's fly next, before he's interrupted by a stammer of protest from Paul.

"Oi--! C'mon, not now," Paul says, awkwardly moving a hand down and placing it in Topper's hair, eyes darting around the room though he knows they're alone."We're onstage soon... An' we still have to do a sound check..." Topper looks up at him, eyes dilated so that the blue in his eyes is a slim ring around his pupils. Paul, unsure of what to do, pats Topper's cheek as some sort of gentle encouragement. Topper's eyebrows furrow and he looks genuinely decisive.

"Paul, I- I wanna do this... I'll do this- It'll be good, I mean, yeah-," he replies, stumbling quickly through his words. Topper rests his cheek against Paul's thigh and his eyes dart up again, and Paul hesitates for a mere second.

"Mate-," he pleads again, trying to gently guide Topper's face away from being dangerously close to his crotch, "This isn't gonna-" He's cut off as the sound of the door handle being turned enters the room and they both scramble away from each other. Topper tries to stand up immediately from kneeling and falls backwards away from Paul on his ass. Paul straightens and tries to surreptitiously zip his pants back up just a moment too late as Mick enters with cables looped around his arm. Paul can tell that the guitarist has caught a glimpse of the scene from the look on his face, and the proverb "caught with his pants down" takes on a whole new meaning as he tries to casually slip his hands into his pockets and ignore the look of pure horror Mick's shooting his way. The guitarist starts as Joe pushes past him, lugging a guitar case into the room, and is forced to turn away to set the equipment down. At least Joe seems oblivious to what's going on. He strides on by Topper, who stands up in an attempt to regain some composure, to find somewhere to place his guitar for the time being. 

Paul is hit with the nagging realization yet again that Topper and him both should have probably told Mick and Joe what was going on. Technically, they've been dating for something like several months now. Technically, that would make them boyfriends too, but neither of them is decidedly gay (or idiotic) enough to refer to the other as such. They postponed telling the other band members for the first month because they were both still coming to terms with the fact that yeah, they made out once, and yeah, they did it again after that. Then they postponed telling them the second and third month because a sort of unspoken agreement developed between the him and Topper that they were dating, but not really, at least if their regular excursions to the record store but now with kisses afterwards in the dirty alleyway counted as dates. And how exactly do you break the news to others when you're not entirely sure what it is yourself?

Paul gets quite the earful from Mick after they finish playing. It's an excellent way to bring him down from a good post-show mood quickly. The guitarist informs him of the obvious: dating a bandmate is a bad idea, and "why haven't you told me n' Joe about this" in a hushed yet irritable tone. Paul retorts that they're not dating, thank you very much, and Mick says alright, he changes his original statement to "stop fucking your bandmate" instead. Paul flushes lightly and slams the lid of his case shut over his bass. 

"I'm leavin' early with Topper tonight. I'll help get shit in the van, then I'm outta here," Paul says briskly, changing the subject but still managing to leave the topic heavy with implication. 

Mick gives him another look- but doesn't say anything more, and turns away with a short nod. They lift amps and wrap cables back up in relative silence.

Fights with Mick are always short-lived, and Paul knows this one will be, too. Mick is the one he's known the longest, and can probably trust the most with shit like this. This is proven as Mick approaches Paul for the last time before they part ways that night. "I won't tell Joe," he murmurs as he passes with guitar case in arm to the van. "Not tonight, at least." Paul gives him a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement in return, full of all the gratitude he can muster.

The van pulls out into the street and Topper hails a cab for them back to Paul's flat. On the way back, Paul rests his head on Topper's shoulder and kisses his neck. It's rather uncharacteristic for him, and Topper's clearly surprised by it, if his flushed cheeks are anything to go by. The cab driver seems to be surprised as well, because he kicks them out a block early despite Topper's indignant protests. It's a losing battle, so Paul pays the fee, drags him out, and spits on the seat before slamming the door.

The trek up the stairs to Paul's flat is quiet, and he doesn't bother to turn on the lights when they enter. Instead, Paul just kicks off his boots and makes his way over to his newly acquired mattress that he found while doing a bit of dumpster diving, which sat without a frame near the couch.

Paul strips his sweat-stained t shirt off and tosses it into the corner, which is soon followed by his trousers, flopping down on the mattress in only his pants. He rolls over to face the wall and squirms under one of the blankets, attempting to get comfortable. 

Topper hesitates for a second before Paul hears the telltale rustling of clothing and jingling of his belt and feels him lay just behind him on the mattress, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder. Paul feels just a bit guilty about giving him the cold shoulder as Topper rests his head gently against his shoulder and murmurs "'m sorry. I shouldn't've done... what I did today. Sorry if I've gone n' fucked it up now."

"...Mmm. Your timin' was shit, though. I've had a little talk with Mick."

"Does he know?"

"Yeah. We gotta tell 'em. Him and Joe."

"Tell 'em wot?"

"About whatever the hell this is."

Topper is silent for a few seconds. His fingers curl against Paul's shoulder in silent contemplation. 

"We can do it tomorrow."

"What I was thinkin' myself." Topper's hand drops from Paul's shoulder. "I'm jus' gonna... get some sleep."

When Paul wakes up from a dreamless sleep the next day, the sun's high in the sky (or at least it would be, if not for the constant cloud cover) and he's seeing the world through a pair of rose colored glasses. Topper's snoring gently next to him, and Paul nudges him awake gently. "Morning, Nicky dear," he says, cracking a smile.

Topper looks at him, bleary eyed and with an imprint of the sheets criss-crossed across his cheek. "Mornin', you absolute bastard. Wha'times'it?"

"Dunno. Late, I think. Care for breakfast?"

Topper sits up, rubbing at his eyes. Paul inadvertently finds himself staring at the Topper's bare chest as he stretches his arms behind his back, joints popping as he juts out his ribs. Sharing a bed with another man is fine; there's been no sexual stuff, but ogling him in the morning seems like its reaching into explicitly homosexual territory so Paul gets up and pads over to the kitchen in bare feet to make tea. He regrets not stealing a blanket because it's damned cold, so he stands by the little stovetop with his arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot as the water boils. He delivers a cup of black tea, no milk (because he's run out), one sugar to Topper along with two cigarettes and a mug in hand for himself. They smoke in a comfortable silence, shoulder to shoulder, once Paul has slipped back under the sheets, depositing a blackened plate to serve as a makeshift ashtray by the mattress. 

Topper breaks the silence first, of course. "So, what the hell is this then? Right now, what'd you call it?"

"Maybe, jus' maybe, a date," Paul says smoothly, but his stomach feels jittery as the words slip out. He's testing the waters here, and he really doesn't want Topper to leap into a defensive mode.

To his surprise, Topper only taps off ash from his cigarette onto the plate and responds with a shrug. "Maybe that's alright with me, then."

Paul turns to look at the other man. "Good, 'cause I'm thinkin' maybe that's what we're gonna tell 'em." Topper turns to him as he speaks but his eyes are pointed downwards away from Paul. "If you're alright with it," he ventures, looking for confirmation. 

"Only if you are. Completely alright with it," Topper responds, taking a drag of his cigarette. 

"'Course," Paul says, leaning over to bump Topper's lips with his own mouth. Topper's eyes flick back to Paul and he seems to get the hint, Paul notes with a bit of satisfaction, as he breathes a small cloud of smoke between them. Paul inhales and leans into the acrid kiss.

It hits him when Topper's tongue is probably about halfway down his throat that they've just officialized something like dating. And, to make timimg even worse, Paul suddenly feels that small pang of knowing that this can't last; they'll inevitably break up someday. They're doing band business and Topper's spiraling down, down in his habits more than ever lately. It's not today though, he reasons as they break apart, panting. 

"I'll take you up on that blowjob now," he says with a gap-toothed grin, earning a punch on the arm from Topper.

"Cocky bastard!" comes the reply, but the drummer's steady hands trace down his stomach. 

Paul kisses Topper's forehead before he's pushed back down onto the blankets by his boyfriend. Nicky, his boyfriend- and what a statement to wrap his mind around.

Life is very, very fine in Paul's dingy residence, for now.


End file.
